Towards the Twisted End

The window is open
and you dark devils,
you long fingered night terrors,
make your way across the floor
as the grey outline of the curtain
billows effortlessly.

Your teeth are sharp and ready
to tease out my faults.
Your tongues are split and muscular
weaving in and out,
they whisper secret shames
into the black recesses of the night.

So heavy is the room
with my darkness now
that I can feel it
on my fingertips
and on each eye
forcing the lid down soundly.

My heart beats gently,
as if not to distract,
as if it were in cahoots
but then, as if suspecting
that I am considering this conjecture,
begins a sudden haste
and rushes red
inside my chest
a loathsome taste.

Slowly it seeps out of me,
as if my skin were to weep
of its own accord.
Each bead is cold and brackish
and reeks of a distinct but
unexplainable fear.

And as the pitch piles high
around my uneasy bed
like walls of brittle
death-black fear and dread
I lie back and await
nights end or
mine own at last.

If Sunlight Was A Smile

You in your
cheap as chips,
mirror-tinted sunglasses:
I am continually catching
glances of myself
in unassuming poses;
moments of delightful torment.

When I try them on
I am distracted by
the slight reflections
of my own eyes
in my peripheral vision:
so wet and precise
and swept over by
the blue sky and my
black, black eyelashes
with that quite quiver

predictably,
inevitably,
pulling back
to your unflinching gaze.

Daly Grind

Your love
is like sitting here
on a gray, vaguely wet morning
in early june
waiting for the train home
after the night that was:
disappointing.

There there, my love

If I ask nothing else of you,
only be there,
when the nighttime terrors
come a-knocking,
to hold my head in your hands,
to run fingers through my hair,
and tell me everything
will be alright.